Chewy905
Chromatic ArchKnight of RP
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The world between worlds lies silent. Still. Patient. It waits for those needful many that seek it, and those lucky or unlucky few that encounter it by mere chance. Then will the City wake. Then will the City support them.
Then will the City prepare them for their futures.
Chaos rules The Chequered City. It is more garden than streets, more growth than structure. Walls of black vine choke out the white slabs of stone. Steadfast marble towers stand wrapped in the obsidian ivy of entropy. Where once the white streets led to prepared homes, or empty inns filled with food and drink, now the black roots guide to lush gardens of fruit and ponds of clean water. Yet even these paths shift and change, unmappable in their benevolent, unpredictable guidance. And at the City’s heart rises an unblemished, pure tower of Order. Untouched by the growth of Chaos. Sturdy and unmoving to the last.
The automatons serve still the White and the Black. Need you be let free in the Garden of Chaos or guided into the structures of Order, they provide. They can provide drink, act as rival, or offer the small gift of comfort in this emptying place. Whatever is needed for the souls destined for War.
For none can stay in The Chequered City. Doors wait to be opened, walls wait to be torn down, portals wait to whisk one away. All to bring these Pawns to the board of the Powers.
All to bring these Pawns to the one place they belong.
The Battlefield.
One lone gunshot breaks the silence. From its path blooms streams of crimson and gold, rushing in elation through the world between worlds. Bitter-scented iron swirls about the color, wrapping tightly around the pawns in an embrace of love and restraint.
The grip grows tighter, suffocating. To break it would be an indulgence and a cruelty. To break it would be a sin. So it constricts further until it can constrict no more. And blood flows forth, untainted by desperation, freed by Defiance.
Thus is a world born, from the restraint of a soul that lived and served out of love and faith.
Four streams of scarlet cut through the dark grass, severing the field to lines of blood and squares of dirt like the board of a child’s game. An iron gate stands vigilant, set within a fence wide and tall as the world. Through its closed doors glows a crimson moon, its light bathing the meadow in glory. The only sound to shatter this dreamlike world is the brooks, their tainted waters gurgling as they reflect the bloodied light.
Above each Pawn, a symbol flashes. A five-spocked circle. For some it holds the white of winking stars, etched straight and still from center to edge. For others it holds the black of the night sky, curled in and upon itself in an eternal spiral. The runes hover above for a single moment, their presence known to all, before they quickly wink out.
The rivers surge once more. Their scent is intoxicating, their currents promising blessings… and curses. No power without cost. From their ripples sounds a gentle voice, steadfast and strong.
“Welcome to the Field of Blessings. No Good can whet your appetite, no Evil can consume your self. Prove yourself worthy, Pawns, or depart in indulgence.”
< Message edited by Chewy905 -- 1/18/2026 16:10:44 >
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